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THE URBAN MAN FOR KCRW, FEB. 19, 2007

Last Days of Costco

By Marc Porter Zasada

You may not have noticed, but the peak of the American consumer society came and went last Tuesday afternoon.

I, for one, knew it couldn’t last much longer. They said we were 5% of the world’s population, but we consumed 30% of its resources. They said if everyone lived like us, it would take three more earths to support humanity. At some point, we knew something was bound to get us: The death of the oceans. Global warming. Expensive oil. Religious warriors. One more really childlike president.

Still, as of last Tuesday morning, we were still standing on the peak of history. Like Carthage or Troy, American homes yet held many unnecessary appliances. Our trash cans remained loaded with much unnecessary packaging. Our freeways still ran chock-a-block with absurd personal vehicles.

But the Urban Man had heard that the tipping point was coming at exactly 12 noon, and I wanted to celebrate the last, brief, high water mark of unrepentant consumerism…before the tide turned.

Where better, I thought, than my local Costco?

Sure enough, it was an El Greco kind of day: cold with swirling gray clouds and occasional rain. And lo, as I pulled into the massive parking lot, I saw many determined Angelenos pushing huge shopping carts toward the guarded entrance.

I said to myself, “Yes this is it. Surely our hubris has grown Greek and magnificent. But just as surely, our extremity will be sung unto the ages.”

Now, I’m a practiced consumer. Every day I drink many diet colas, absorb numerous media images, and keep my eye out for clever new gadgets. Greek warriors were remembered for their courage and Greek philosophers for their wisdom. I wanted the Urban Man to be remembered for his ability to spot a bargain within a vast array of goods displayed on endless aisles. So once inside, I cast my eye up the storied orange and green shelving units, rising topless toward the bright warehouse ceiling. I reached up my hand to touch the shrinkwrapped pallets of toasters and garden furniture. I searched the serried cliffs of paper towels, the painted reefs of cereal boxes, the bluffs of bigscreen TVs playing NFL highlights.

In the background, old women in plastic hair caps called out their free samples: “Philly Cheese Steak, Chicken Teriyaki, Bagel Bites.”

Okay, I didn’t find many actual deals. But soon, like most visitors to Costco, I abandoned bargain hunting altogether. No, the thrill of shopping itself took me in—the sheer verve of unrepentant spending. I told myself that American consumerism will not be remembered for its parsimony, just as it will not be remembered for its frivolous boutiques. No, the best songs will be composed about our burly size and unlimited credit.

So I hefted a box of stainless steel cookware into my oversized cart, along with a Royal Albert Vase, a 15-pound carton of detergent, three 20-inch slabs of frozen salmon, a multi-pack of boxed Oreos, a fullsized vacuum cleaner and a rolled up fake Persian rug so I’d have something to…vacuum.

But alas, as I pushed toward the checkout, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was 12:05 and the peak of American consumer civilization had already passed. I had missed it by just that much—and looking down at my laden cart, I said to myself, “Gee, now it would be pointless to actually buy this stuff—I mean, it would be a kind of anticlimax to the whole American Century.”

After all, from now on, it’s all downhill.

I hate to disappoint my listeners. But I abandoned my cart right there in the middle of the aisle as a kind of testament…and I proceeded empty-handed to the exit, where the Urban Man again crossed the windswept parking lot to one of the last large gas-guzzling automobiles in America and drove the wet streets back home.